


seasons (they pass and i still feel the same)

by balladofwolves



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Documaker!Jaskier, Implied Sexual Content, Jealousy, Light Tobacco Use, M/M, Pining, Still a Witcher!Geralt (sort of), Yennefer is a good bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 00:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22422964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/balladofwolves/pseuds/balladofwolves
Summary: Jaskier first meets Geralt near springtime. And he falls hook, line, and sinker. Modern AU.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 96
Kudos: 1037





	seasons (they pass and i still feel the same)

Jaskier first lays eyes on one Geralt of Rivia near springtime. 

It’s at the twentieth birthday party of one Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, heiress to a multimillion pound real estate fortune. Everyone who is anyone in England is at the sprawling estate she calls home. Even the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge are rumored to be present at the festivities. All here to welcome the young heiress into another year with loud, thumping music, extravagant gifts, and crystal champagne flutes filled to the brim with Dom Perignon.

“ _Jas,_ ” Ciri greets breathlessly, tipping her head upwards to bestow him with a kiss on the cheek, “There you are. I thought you’d never come.”

“Wouldn’t miss this for the world, love. Happy birthday,” Jaskier says, as she links her arm through his. The sequins of her soft pink dress catch the light as they move further and further into the mansion. “May I say you look _absolutely_ marvelous.”

“Mhm, if you mean that, you’ll sing something for me tonight.”

“I’ll _consider_ it.”

“I’m sure I can convince you.”

“I don’t doubt that, darling.”

Jaskier plucks two flutes of golden bubbles from the tray of a nearby waiter and hands one to Ciri. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

They toast, and Jaskier brings the crystal glass to his lips, enjoying the feel of the fizzy liquid on his tongue. His eyes roam around with faint interest. It’s been a few years since his docu-series has blown up, winning him various awards and accolades and thrusting him onto the national stage. So he’s fairly comfortable in this crowd of similarly popular actors, singers, reality stars, social media influencers, and the like. 

So very comfortable and so very _bored_ . Save for Ciri’s company, and that of a few others who move in the same circles he does - Triss, for one, and Yennefer, although Jaskier would never admit _that_ to the latter, knowing how much she’d enjoy it - the rich and famous don’t make for particularly _riveting_ company. 

And then his eyes fall on _him._ And it’s like all the air in his body rushes out of him at the same time. 

He’s in the corner of the truly gigantic living room, leaning against an off-white marble pillar, a tumbler of amber liquid that matches his eyes in one hand. He looks to be either in his late twenties or early thirties; his impossibly white hair is pulled into a half ponytail style that puts his angular, sleek, cut jaw prominently on display. He’s not wearing a suit like the other guests, but dark jeans, black boots, and a crisp black dress shirt. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbow and the first three buttons are undone, and Jaskier catches a glimpse of the fine hair lining the broad expanse of that chest. 

And it’s not that this _tower_ of a man is the most dangerously attractive thing Jaskier’s seen in a _long time_ that has his interest peaked, even though that certainly doesn’t hurt -

It’s that this _tower_ of a man looks like he’d rather _be anywhere_ else, a permanent scowl etched onto the painfully attractive planes of his face. 

And Jaskier is _deeply_ into everything about this man. He knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the older stranger is _anything_ but boring.

So he taps Ciri’s shoulder, careful not to jostle the strap of her sparkly dress. “Who is _that_?” He asks, pointing to the beautiful man still nestled by the pillar. 

“Hmm? Oh, that’s Geralt,” she replies like that explains _everything_. Jaskier raises an incredulous eyebrow. 

“Okay and who exactly _is_ Geralt?”

“He’s family,” Ciri says with a jaunty smile, determined it seems to remain infuriatingly vague. Jaskier is both amused and exasperated and still _so, so interested._

Ciri must see something in his expression because her smile turns sly. She bumps his shoulder, teasing. “Why do you care, Jas? Did Geralt catch your eye?”

“Maybe.”

_Definitely. Yes._

Ciri laughs, light and airy, like bells. “You know, Geralt is actually a _witcher_.”

Jaskier turns towards her sharply. “ _Really?_ ” 

“Really,” she replies, almost smug. “I seem to remember _someone_ talking about doing a documentary on witchers.”

She wasn’t wrong. Jaskier’s always been fascinated by witchers. People often wrote them off as nothing more than glorified bounty hunters, but they were _so_ much more than that. Witchers are a _creed_ \- they have a code of conduct, principles they adhere to for the kinds of bounties they take, how much harm they inflict, and a thorough understanding of first-aid medical care, should they need to help anyone on the scene. They serve their own brand of justice, tracking down criminals, rapists, _murderers_ even. 

And nobody in England _gets_ that. Nobody’s ever tried to explain the complexity of witchers. And Jaskier’s interest in the attractive white-haired man is now triplefold, though it was ridiculously high to begin with. 

“I’ve been talking about that for _months,_ Cirilla. Have you been hiding Geralt from me?” He accuses, but his eyes are sparkling, and his tone is teasing, without bite. 

“Me? I would _never_ ,” she says with mock outrage. Jaskier can’t help but laugh; downs the remainder of his champagne with gusto - finds himself needing the liquid courage - before setting the empty glass on the platter of _another_ passing waiter. 

“Well then what are you waiting for? _Introduce me_.”

“I’d be happy to. _After_ you sing me a song.”

“Cirilla Fiona -”

“You sound like my grandmother, _Jaskier._ It’s just _one_ song. Please? For me?”

She blinks her huge blue eyes at him and Jaskier scoffs, even as his mouth trembles in a failed bid to contain a fond smile. He was always going to cave, they both knew that. It was just a matter of when. 

“Fine,” he says, “just - hand me your glass.”

He knocks back the contents of that one too, wiping at his mouth before he sets off towards the stage at the center of the living room, Ciri clapping excitedly behind him. He pops the button of his vest open; shrugs out of his suit jacket and takes off his tie and sets them aside one one of the giant speakers before going to greet the band on stage. 

The drummer gives him a knowing look. “So Ciri finally convinced you, huh? I gotta say, I didn’t think you’d fold so quickly, Jas.” 

He sniffs. “Just make sure you can keep up with me, alright Rivan?”

“You’re such a cocky shit,” he says, laughing. 

Jaskier throws him a saucy wink before moving further onto the stage, grabbing a nearby acoustic guitar. 

And as he steps into the glare of the hot lights, keenly aware of the pair of molten gold eyes now _tracking him_ , he clears his throat before speaking into the mic. “How’s everybody feeling tonight?” He asks, and is immediately greeted with loud, excited cheers. 

“I’m Jaskier Pankratz. Most of you know I don’t usually do this, but the birthday girl made a special request and - well, who am I to refuse,” he says to some scattered laughter in the crowd. “Ciri, darling, it is a pleasure to be here. Happy birthday.”

“Happy birthday Ciri!” The crowd echoes raucously. 

Jaskier chuckles; strums a few chords on the guitar. “Well I think it’s about time we get into it yeah?” 

He launches into a ballad, a sweet, wanting thing that he knows is one of Ciri’s absolute favorites. It gets a little daring, a little sultry in the middle, and Jaskier is completely sunk into the beat, breathy and dark and keening, the song melting on his tongue like butter.

Ciri’s clearly enjoying herself, so is the crowd - he doesn’t perform often anymore but he’s never doubted his ability to enthrall an audience - but Jaskier is only focused on a single pair of molten gold eyes; eyes that haven’t lifted off him once. 

Ah, so the witcher is intrigued too. 

A shudder of pleasure runs through Jaskier at the thought, the song nearing the end. A powerful belt marks the conclusion, the note tapering off into a husky, gasping thing. With one last strum of his guitar, Jaskier takes a bow. 

The crowd erupts in a chorus of claps and cheers. He winks and blows a kiss. “Ladies and gentlemen give a round of applause for the band. They’ll be entertaining you for the rest of the evening.”

Applause are still chasing after him as he steps down from the stage and immediately tracks down Ciri, who looks for all intents and purposes like the cat who got the cream. 

“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” She says to him with an overly sweet smile.

“Mhm,” he replies, noncommittal. “I believe you owe me an introduction?”

“Fine, you relentless arse,” Ciri huffs, though her eyes betray her amusement. She links her arm through Jaskier’s once more and crosses the expanse of the living room. “Ah, Geralt, there you are.” His heart starts to race again as they move closer and closer to the witcher.

“I’ve not moved,” the man says wryly. 

Ciri waves him off. “Doesn’t matter. I wanted to introduce you to my good friend Jaskier. Jaskier, this is Geralt.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, enjoying the way the name rolls off his tongue. He extends a hand out. “I am so excited to meet you.”

There’s one, exquisite second where time seems to be suspended. And Jaskier knows, without a doubt, that he’s standing at one of those important moments in his life. 

Geralt raises an eyebrow, and the picture is so sinfully attractive it causes Jaskier’s throat to bob nervously as he takes Jaskier’s hand in his; shakes it. “Jaskier,” and his name sounds _so_ good coming out of that mouth, “good to meet you.”

And it’s almost springtime when Jaskier meets one Geralt of Rivia, and he falls hook, line, and sinker. 

* * *

“I can’t believe it,” Jaskier says, eyed wide and completely enthralled as he gazes up at the imposing mountain stronghold. “Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt is right behind him, stoic as ever, but amusement flickers in his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re getting nervous _now_ , bambi. Not after all that time talking my ear off.”

A shudder runs through Jaskier’s spine and he angles his head back to shoot the witcher a half-hearted glare. “Me? Nervous? Never,” he scoffs, “and stop calling me bambi. I hate it.”

Geralt’s mouth curves ever so slightly. “No you don’t.”

He really doesn’t. 

It takes him three months of truly relentless talking, texting, calling, and all-around shameless pursuit to convince Geralt to bring him to the place where all witchers come to _learn_ and _train_ and walk the Path. He’s gotten to know Geralt fairly well during this time and everything he’s come to find about about the witcher has only reinforced his initial impression - has made him even more irresistibly attractive in Jaskier’s eyes. 

Yes, he wants Geralt badly, but the man has been infuriatingly out of reach. Jaskier thinks, at first, it’s simply because Geralt may not be attracted to _men_ but then - 

The witcher flirts. And calls him pet names. And his feather-light touches stay for longer than strictly necessary. 

And yet -

Jaskier shakes his head; hoists his vintage film camera higher up onto his shoulder. “Well then, shall we get to it?”

Kaer Morhen it turns out, is just as impressive on the inside as it is on the outside. Jaskier shoots reel upon reel of the gorgeous, expansive courtyard, the halls, the library, the laboratory, the training grounds. The summer weather isn’t suffocating up here, just pleasantly mild, and Jaskier takes the opportunity to film as much of the surroundings as he can. 

Geralt introduces him to Vesemir, who is more game than Jaskier ever expected to appear on camera, talking about the ways of the witcher bounty hunters. He gets to talk to other witchers who are on the premises and witcher-in-trainings. 

Throughout his visit, Geralt remains firmly by his side, and Jaskier manages to capture him on film more than once. He’s stunning, strength and unique brand of charm coming through clear as day. He’s shot Geralt like this before over the past three months - has shown him both strong and vulnerable, powerful and compassionate, headstrong and yielding - but his qualities all seem to double in the place that nurtured him. 

Jaskier asks Vesemir for another brief interview - the last one, he promises - and the older witcher acquiesces. He films him in the library near a floor-to-ceiling window where the sun catches against his silvery-white hair as he speaks. 

“What’s something you wish people knew about witchers?” Jaskier asks his final question off-camera. 

He captures the thoughtful expression on Vesemir’s finely lined face, who remains quiet for a few minutes before he speaks, as Jaskier continues to roll, “That we are not lawless, or hungry for blood and revenge. We work to bring and preserve order to communities, families, people, not for fame and glory but because it is our way. We are people, just like everyone else, looking to better the world we’re in the only way we know how.”

Jaskier lowers the camera slowly, eyes locking with Vesemir, feeling moved and oddly without words. The fingers around his camera squeeze - he has something special here, he knows it. 

“Got everything you need, bambi?” Geralt murmurs, and his voice is like liquid _sin_ in Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek to quell the moan building inside his throat. 

“For now,” he says and he hates how breathless he sounds. 

Geralt cocks his head, a smug and utterly _delicious_ smile beginning to curve at his mouth as he says, “Great. Let’s head out.”

And Jaskier follows him out, back to Geralt’s Jeep, as they trade flirty and quick-witted barbs. Jaskier watches Geralt drive the entire way back to London, enjoying the way the muscles of the witcher’s arms ripple as he maneuvers the car more than he enjoys the pleasantly mild summer weather. 

* * *

He’s at one of London’s posh pubs some odd months later in the middle of fall, grabbing drinks with Yennefer, Istredd, Triss, Ciri, and Geralt. He’s having just a wonderful time, laughing and drinking with his friends, when a twenty-something strawberry blonde - all short skirt and legs and tits - approaches the witcher with a sultry stare and fluttering eyelashes.

And Jaskier’s mood immediately sours.

It’s not clear to him if Geralt is actually entertaining her advances, but she’s still _talking_ to him so he’s not actively pushing her away either. He frowns, bothered by the whole thing more than he can say.

Yennefer must notice his disapproval, because her eyes flash knowingly before she grabs onto Jaskier’s arm and whisks him to a far corner of the pub. “If looks could kill that poor girl would be dead twice over,” she remarks conversationally.

“What are you talking about, Yen?”

“Don’t be coy with me, Jas. I’ve never seen you eye-fuck a guy as much as the witcher. You want Geralt. Badly.”

Jaskier flushes and he crosses his arms petulantly. “I don’t eye-fuck Geralt,” he mumbles in protest.

“Oh yes, yes you do. _All_ the goddamn time. It’d be cute if it wasn’t, you know, disgusting.” Her saucy smile takes the bite out of her words. “So are you going to do anything about it or what?”

He huffs, pushing an exasperated hand through his hair. “Believe me, I’ve tried, but I’m not getting anywhere. I keep thinking he’s not into men.” Jaskier doesn’t tell Yennefer that he can’t let himself consider that Geralt just might not be into _him_. 

She seems to pick up on it all the same. Her gaze turns shrewd, and she briefly glances back at their table - notices Geralt look their way ( _Jaskier’s_ way), even as he keeps talking to the strawberry blonde. “I don’t think that’s it,” she hums thoughtfully, “maybe he just needs a little extra push.”

“What kind of push?”

Yennefer waves him off. “I’ll think about it and get back to you. Let’s go back to drinking, yeah?” As they walk back to the table, hands linked together, she whispers close to his ear, “He’s not going to sleep with that girl.”

Jaskier swirls around his Moscow mule morosely. “You think so?”

“I _know_ so.”

Sure enough, it’s only a couple minutes later, but Geralt bends down to whisper something in the twenty-something’s ear and her lips purse in disappointment before she walks away. And Jaskier watches in barely disguised surprise as Geralt picks up his pint and sidles up closer to him, drawing him into a conversation. 

And Jaskier’s eyes connect with Yennefer’s from across the table, and she shoots him a discrete wink.

And, what would you know, his mood improves remarkably. 

* * *

It’s wintertime when Jaskier finally puts together the final cut of his witcher documentary. He’s worked with his editors around the clock, and when it’s done there’s an immense sense of relief and pride. He’s got something special on his hands. He _knows_ it. 

He hosts a screening for his friends, his agent, the producers and studio executives. He also invites Vesemir, and all the witchers he’d talked to that summer at Kaer Morhen. Jaskier sits between Yennefer and Geralt, with Ciri just one seat over, in the small homey theater, thrumming with nervous energy. He is _painfully_ aware that the focus of his documentary is sitting right next to him; can feel the heat of his body coming off in waves. He swallows and desperately tries to focus. 

When the credits roll, there’s a chorus of applause, and one of the studio execs approaches him, spouting compliments and letting him know they should be all set for a springtime release. Jaskier nods, pleased but only half-listening. There’s only one person whose opinion really matters. 

“What did you think?” He asks Geralt much later, when they’re alone, walking down an empty street somewhere in London. They’re sharing a cigar - Jaskier doesn’t usually indulge, neither does Geralt as a matter of fact, but they’re both making an exception tonight - and he’s trying and _failing_ not to think about how Geralt’s mouth was just on the cigar he has between his lips. 

Geralt is quiet for a moment, and Jaskier’s heart sinks; thinks _oh no, he hates it._ But then -

“You made witchers - you made _me_ \- look like a hero. Nobody’s ever seen us like that.”

And even though his voice is still at that same, raspy, lovely low timber, it sounds surprisingly _vulnerable_ and Jaskier’s heart twists. “ _I_ see you like that,” he murmurs, “and I want everybody else to do too.”

It’s wintertime, and the air is cold and nipping at his ears but Jaskier doesn’t feel any of it over the mix of anxiety and hope sending his heart into overdrive. Geralt is looking at him like he’s seeing him for the first time - amber eyes intense and inscrutable - and Jaskier thinks maybe the moment he’s been waiting for is finally here. 

Geralt approaches him slowly, and Jaskier’s heart is in his throat. The witcher stands so close he’s only a hair’s breadth away from him. 

Jaskier watches through hooded eyes as Geralt brings the still-lit cigar to his lips; watches with an increasingly dry throat as Geralt inhales. He’s not much taller than him, but at this distance, Jaskier feels like Geralt positively _towers_ over him, caging him in, and he’s surprised by how much he thoroughly enjoys feeling _trapped_ by the witcher. 

Everything sort of - just - _fades_ away when Geralt tips his head forward, so close to Jaskier they could be _kissing_ \- and slowly, painstakingly, exhales the stream of sweet smoke between Jaskier’s lips. 

And Jaskier’s brain just _short-circuits_ , the tension in the air so thick it cuts through the bitter cold of winter. But instinct takes over and Jaskier breathes in the smoke - is so, so, so _aware_ of how close their mouths are to each other - breathes all of it in, before turning his head a fraction and exhaling the smoke into the biting winter air. 

When Jaskier angles his head back to face Geralt, the witcher’s eyes are opaque. 

“Thank you, Jaskier,” he murmurs so agonizingly close to his lips, and Jaskier doesn’t think his name has ever sounded so good. Geralt’s breath is ghosting and warm against him and although it’s wintertime and below freezing in London, Jaskier only feels _heat_. 

* * *

For weeks after, there is nothing. Geralt never acknowledges what happened - doesn’t act any different. Their relationship slots back into its normal rhythm, all flirty and witty barbs and tension that could be sexual, could be something else. 

The winter chill gets even colder with the bite of all-consuming disappointment. 

* * *

They all go to a fancy club for New Year’s Eve. There’s a DJ and booze and dancing and attractive people wearing their best attire _everywhere_. 

And Jaskier is having an absolutely _horrid_ time. 

For one, it feels like Geralt has been studiously ignoring him the entire night. He’s drinking glass after glass of whiskey neat, talking to Ciri, or Istredd, or Triss - or really anybody who _isn’t_ him.

Meanwhile, Jaskier’s been staring down his fourth or fifth Cosmopolitan like he’d rather eat glass than be here. He was _so_ looking forward to this party too - had dressed in his tightest black leather pants, black platform boots that hit just below his knee, and a dashing purple blouse with sheer sleeves that matches his liner and draws out his eyes. 

But Geralt hasn’t glanced his way even _once_ and his entire outfit feels like a hell of a waste now. 

“Why so glum, sugarplum?”

Jaskier lifts his eyes, mouth quirking a little at the joke, only to meet Rivan’s deep brown gaze. He hadn’t realized the drummer was at this party, but he finds himself pleasantly open to his company. “Cute,” he replies.

Rivan grins. “I thought so. Anything I can do to bring a smile to that face, love?”

Jaskier blinks. Rivan is _flirting._ And with a lot less subtlety than Geralt ever has, he can’t help but notice bitterly. His warm brown eyes are open and expressive, and looking at him like he’d love nothing more than to eat him alive. And yes, Rivan is attractive and muscled and angular in all the right places - looks like he can easily shove Jaskier up against the wall and have his way with him - but there’s no escaping the fact that he isn’t _Geralt._

Jaskier is just about to politely and kindly turn down Rivan, when his eyes instinctively trail back towards Geralt, and whatever alcohol is still on the tip of Jaskier’s tongue turns to ash in his mouth. 

The witcher is _smiling,_ talking to Yennefer, who looks stunning as always in a deep emerald backless dress. They’re close, bodies almost touching, and although Jaskier knows Yennefer would _never_ do anything like that to him, the part of him that’s been simmering and smarting and _hurting_ can’t help but notice that they look _so_ good like that together.

Swallowing against the acrid bile of envy, he turns back to Rivan and pastes on a wide, sultry smile. “How about a drink together, hmm?” He says, and his hand ghosts over Rivan’s, fingers feather-light against the other man’s wrist. 

“Fancy anything in particular?”

“Surprise me.”

Rivan returns soon enough with two Negronis - an absolute _favorite_ of Jaskier’s and he’s both pleased and surprised by this incredibly astute choice. “Cheers,” Rivan says, lifting his glass up with one hand, while the other winds itself around Jaskier’s waist; presses against the small of his back. 

Jaskier licks his lips. “Cheers, darling.”

They clink glasses and Jaskier locks eyes with Rivan from beneath his lashes as he tips the drink to his lips. 

Rivan sets his own cocktail back onto the high table next to them and brings Jaskier closer to him, one leg moving in between his. “Have I told you,” he murmurs into Jaskier’s ear, his hand warm and heavy on his back, “how absolutely _delicious_ you look tonight, Jas?”

Jaskier huffs out a low laugh, taking another sip of his drink, his head tilted slightly upwards to be at eye-level with Rivan. “You haven’t, but please do go on.”

“I’d love to take you home.”

“Is that right?”

“Mhm, say you’ll let me, love.”

It’s not even midnight yet, and it’s not the right guy and not the right reasons, but Jaskier is so sick of smarting and _hurting_ \- _likes_ feeling wanted and desired for a change. And it’s New Year’s Eve and he probably shouldn’t leave before midnight, but it’s _nice_ to feel Rivan’s lips coasting along the side of his neck, full of heat and lust and want. 

So he downs as much of his drink as he can in one go, catching an errant drop with his tongue, as he says, “Lead the way.”

The corners of Rivan’s mouth curve upwards and his hand curls more tightly around Jaskier’s waist as he walks him towards the door. 

They’re almost out, and Jaskier’s nearly finished typing out a text to Ciri and Yennefer telling them where he’s headed when -

A hand on his wrist stops him in his tracks. And Jaskier swivels around only to come face to face with a pair of steely and absolutely _furious_ golden eyes. His heart leaps to his throat - he’s never seen Geralt look quite so _angry_ before.

Rivan tilts his head. “Can we help you?”

Geralt slides a cool glance towards him, but Jaskier can see the corded muscles underneath the crisp dark grey dress shirt ripple with barely concealed fury. “Jaskier here can’t leave,” he replies, “but you’re more than welcome to fuck off.”

“ _What_?”

Jaskier is similarly stunned, blood roaring in his ears. “That’s -”

And Geralt’s eyes are _on him_ then - filled with a dozen emotions that Jaskier doesn’t dare name but still send his poor heart racing - and he finds himself unable to continue his train of thought. He swallows heavily. “I’m - I’m sorry Rivan.”

There’s a sharp glance his way that Jaskier doesn’t meet before a slow exhale. “What the fuck ever,” he hears Rivan mutter as the man stalks out of the club. 

Leaving just Jaskier and Geralt behind in the small space between the exit and the rest of the club. And Jaskier finally, finally, breaks out of his momentary stupor, wrenching his wrist away from Geralt’s grip, thrumming with a combination of righteous anger and embarrassment. “ _What the fuck_ was that about?”

But Geralt ignores him. 

“Were you going to fuck him?”

“ _Excuse me_?”

“Would you let him fuck _you_?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, _Geralt_ ,” he snaps, chest heaving with every indignant breath, “but _yes_ so what if I was?”

If it’s possible, Geralt’s gaze turns even _stormier._ He crosses the small space between them so that their chests are right up against each other. Dimly, Jaskier realizes that Geralt has properly walked him back until he’s up against a fucking wall, caged in between the witcher’s thick, muscular arms. “ _Nobody_ ,” he hisses, and Jaskier hates how the possessive, husky sound goes straight to his cock; leaves him breathless, “gets to have you that way.”

Jaskier scoffs, blue eyes defiant. “And why the hell not? I don’t see _you_ making any moves to fuck me.”

“I -”

“Or is it just that you can’t stand that somebody else might want to have their way with me? And I’d let them?”

“Stop. Talking. Jaskier.”

“No I don’t think I will,” Jaskier continues, still angry, and a part of him enjoys goading the witcher on, “jealousy is _so_ unbecoming of you, Geralt. Really, how awfully _stereotypical_ of -”

But he doesn’t get to finish because all of a sudden Geralt’s lips are _on his_ , kissing him, claiming him, and Jaskier moans before he can help himself - a sound the witcher eagerly swallows as he tilts Jaskier’s head and traces the seam of his lips with his tongue. 

When they break apart, Jaskier is flushed and heaving; fingers curled around Geralt’s arms and lips red and swollen. Geralt leans in again; sucks in a bruise low on his neck, causing Jaskier to gasp, hips thrusting involuntarily and brushing up against _hardness_ and _heat_ and _want_. 

“You are _mine_ ,” the witcher bites out, pressing him impossibly closer, making the evidence of his arousal known. 

Jaskier’s eyes are bright and dewy and meeting Geralt’s amber gaze head-on and unafraid. He twines his arms around the witcher’s neck; breathes a daring, “ _Show me_ , then,” against Geralt’s lips. 

And the witcher’s eyes are nearly black as he tugs on Jaskier’s hand; gets him into a cab and back to his flat. Throws him up against the door when they get inside - and it’s _just as good_ if not _better_ than Jaskier’s wildest fantasies - dragging lips and teeth and _tongue_ down the line of Jaskier’s throat, wrenching the sweetest, breathiest moans and gasps from him. 

And it’s midnight, and there are choruses of _happy new year!_ and clinking glasses across the city, but Jaskier is busy ringing the new year in Geralt’s bed, on his back, with the witcher on top of him. There’s only _heat_ and _groans_ and writhing bodies and _snapping_ hips;

A keening, “ _oh, Geralt;”_

A groaning, “I _have you_ bambi;”

And a:

“Harder, darling, I can _take it_ ;”

And a:

“Jesus, Jaskier, the way you _feel_ ;”

And:

“ _Nobody_ gets to have you like this;”

And:

“You’re _mine;_ ”

And then there’s nothing but groans and gasps and a high-pitched _keening_ , and Jaskier throws his head back as Geralt marks him as _his_ before collapsing on top of him. 

And it’s still winter, it’s the new year, but the next day, when Jaskier wakes up - meets satisfied and glinting molten gold eyes in the morning light - feels the witcher’s hand curl against his nape, bringing him in for a hot, wet kiss. 

Hears the, “say it Jaskier. Say you’re mine, _all_ mine,” murmured low and possessive in his ear, making him shiver. 

Jaskier nods a little breathless, fingers curling against Geralt’s chest, whispering, “I’m _all_ yours, witcher. I’ve _been_ all yours.”

And Geralt thrums with pride and raw, almost animalistic _satisfaction_ as he rolls on top of Jaskier, while the latter just lets out a low, breathless laugh; allows himself to fully drown into the witcher.

And it’s still winter - it’s a new year - and most of London is still asleep, still cold. 

But Jaskier can feel the warm light of spring.

**Author's Note:**

> i may start a series in this universe, depends on how much you all like this! comments, bookmarks, kudos are all appreciated :)))


End file.
